


Come And See

by fivethingsunmixed



Series: Sing, Sing, Sing [1]
Category: Cowboy Bebop
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Dark fic, F/M, Gen, Mob family, Vignettes, prequel fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-12 17:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12964866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fivethingsunmixed/pseuds/fivethingsunmixed
Summary: “And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see.”Before the roses, and the torn paper, and the lies, and the running, and the bloodshed, and the blues that never ended...how did it all begin? Four horsemen rode, and one of the four said, come and see. The relationships and perspectives that define Mao, Julia, Vincent and Spike, before the Bebop, and before the roses.Prequel to Melomania and Chase.





	1. The Crowned Rider/Conquest

**Author's Note:**

> Before some smartypants jumps down my throat, firstly, I’m going off the four Horsemen based on the KJV Bible, and no, there is no Horseman named Pestilence, popular media has lied to you.
> 
> We’re also back to Melomania’s structure, where each chapter focusses on a specific character and their relationships with each person.
> 
> I also based the Syndicate off of Japanese Yakuza, including the titles for boss (obayun), underlings (kobun) and lieutenants (wakagashira and shateigashira). Feel free to correct me if I got anything wrong.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mao is king of all he surveys. Problem is, his children have a habit of acting in ways that will...make problems down the line. He just hopes he can fix the messes before they start.

**Mao Yenrai**

_And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer._

 

(Vicious)

Mao has never considered himself religious; his line of work is antithetical to it. Yet there is something in Vicious - a pride, perhaps, or a coldness - or maybe, in fact, something that _lacks_ in Vicious, that reminds Mao of the story he heard of the Abrahamic God, and the proudest of his sons.

“Have you ever heard the story of the Morningstar, Vicious?” Mao asks him, as the two drink tea together.

“Do you have a job for me, _obayun_?” replies Vicious, not lifting his tea to his lips.

Mao smiles to himself; or maybe he sighs.

“The Morningstar, Vicious. He was the highest and brightest of all the angels in Heaven. Yet he rebelled because he thought he knew better than his father.”

A single arching of the eyebrow. Vicious, abashed, as any child would be, lowers his gaze, and drinks from his cup discreetly, like a dog seeking penance.

“He led a rebellion, and was cast from Heaven to become a devil. That is what happens when angels are cast from their father’s eyes. I wish you to remember the lesson, Vicious.”

Mao takes a sip of the tea, and watches the expressions shift over Vicious’ face; he hopes, in vain, to make a point. Part of him knows the point is already futile.

At least, he thinks, he has Spike.

 

(Julia)

He catches her, after another Syndicate funeral, and slips an arm into hers before either Vicious or Spike can catch her eye.

“Walk with me,” Mao says, simply, and she nods. He can see the tension in every line of her body; it is unusual for the _obayun_ of the Syndicate to make such a broad, explicit motion to somebody not belonging to the _kobun_.

When they are away from the funeral gathering, Julia asks, “What do you want?”

Mao says nothing for awhile, but takes the time to purchase a few, rather lovely daffodils from a vendor, fixing one in his buttonhole, and offering the rest to Julia, who takes them with an air of deep gravity.

“I understand that you are in a relationship with Vicious.”

The lines around Julia’s mouth tighten; there is a wetness to her face. Well, Vicious gained his nickname for a reason.

“...I also understand you and Spike have started a relationship.”

Julia makes a sound now, like she’s holding back a gasp of tears.

“Julia. You know that you are in terrible danger. Whatever this thing is with Spike, you must end it.”

“Bu...but…”

“End it, Julia. I will know otherwise.”

 

(Spike)

Spike. His younger son. His protege. His up and coming lieutenant.

For a while, Mao thought, he understood Spike - a child lifted from poverty and raised into the Syndicate by his hand and his choice. Now, however, he starts to understand that there is more to Spike - more to his loyalty, more to his choices - than the mere gratefulness of a child. Somewhere, behind the mismatched eyes, there is a genuine sense of morality, a soulful, wilful man, hidden in there.

It makes Mao think of Icarus, enjoying his flight too much to realize the deadliness of the sun he flew so close to; it makes Mao think of Daedelus, weeping openly over his son’s broken body, flying so high and beautiful on elegant wings of wax, unable to listen to his father’s pleas.

It makes Mao think also of Orpheus, who could sing beautifully enough to move the hearts of the dead, and who, after losing his wife, was ripped apart by maenads, and sang, beautifully, as he did so.

Mao fears for his younger son. Fears for his life. His soul. His future.

Most of all, Mao fears that the story Spike is writing is not the story of Orpheus, nor the story of Icarus.

Mao fears, as he watches Spike smile, a touch too fondly at Julia, that Spike is writing the story of the First Murder; and that Vicious will be the one to give the best he has to offer.


	2. The Sword-Bearing Rider/War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are things Vicious thinks of as weak and there are things Vicious thinks of as his. Unfortunately, that's about to change.

**Vicious**

_And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword._

 

(Mao)

There is a memory, Vicious has, from when he was young, still rising in the ranks of the _kobun_ . He had been assigned the _obayun’s_ protection, and was taking it, as he took all things, with the deepest seriousness.

That was his only job; the _obayun’s_ protection; Mao’s protection. The man who had lifted him - and his blood-brother Spike - from the gutters, and said that he would feed them, clothe them, and make something of them. The man who had bought them little gifts when they were young, who had treated them as something between a child, an investment, and a pet.

But during the job, an assassin came at them.

He _should_ have ushered Mao away, shielding him with his body; instead, bloodlust took over him, and he struck the man down with two shots to the head.

The tongue-lashing Mao gave him was severe, and Vicious held out the requisite hand, bracing himself for the pain that would inevitably come when Mao severed his finger.

It never came.

Mao showed him mercy, and instead removed him from protection and into the drug running business. It was a demotion in name only; a punishment in spirit only; and it showed Vicious one thing and one thing only:

Mao was _weak_.

 

(Julia)

She lies on his bed, golden hair splayed out behind her, bruises beautifully coloring the pale skin of her neck. He runs his tongue up the redpurpleblue skin, and feels the hair prickle on her neck as she shivers.

There is something in her eyes akin to fear, and he likes it.

 

(Spike)

When he thinks of Spike, he thinks of a warmth at his back and in his fist; he thinks of the smell of cordite and blood. He thinks of the tang of iron in his mouth, and the pounding in his eyes of his own pulse.

That was before.

Before one day, in a pool joint, hanging with the other members of the _kobun_ ( _back when he socialized, back when he was_ **_weak_ ** _…_ ) he glanced over at Julia, admiring the way leather clung to her body.

And saw. Saw her turn, and look at Spike.

And saw Spike look up from his drink, and meet her gaze with a look in his eyes Vicious had never seen before.

There are things in this world that Vicious thinks of as weak (Mao, friendships, loyalty). But there are also things - people - _toys_ \- Vicious thinks of as _his_ . Spike. Julia. _His_.

And that glance, in a smoke-filled room, makes Vicious rethink that.

Makes Vicious wonder if maybe, the only thing that is really his is his blade, and the violence that it causes.

He thinks of bruises on pale skin and the smell of cordite and wonders how prettily his toys will look when he’s smashed them against the wall into broken fragments of bone and skin, and the thought pleases him, and it’s on that night that Vicious decides that the Spike he knew is dead, and it is officially his job to destroy this false pretender. Forever.


	3. The Rider With Scales/Famine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia's relationships are all defined by the questions she asks and the answers she receives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: for domestic abuse

**Julia**

_ And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand. _

_ And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine. _

 

(Mao)

She never understood.

She’d lie awake, next to Vicious, and ask, “Why are you so loyal to him?”

And Vicious would say nothing, and turn to the wall, or would chide her gently for speaking ill or, if he was in a mood, slap her across the mouth, and then kiss her, hard, to silence the bitter treachery she spoke.

Later, when it was Spike she was curled up against, she would ask again: “Why are you so loyal to him?”

And he would stare at her, puzzled, as if she had asked a question he didn’t understand.

“He raised me,” he said, slowly, as if articulating an idea he himself didn’t quite understand, “I’m off the streets because of him.”

“Are you? Really?”

And Spike stared at her with mismatched eyes that didn’t seem to really understand.

So when she met Mao, for the first time, a figure Vicious spoke of with a mixture of disdain, hatred and loathsome affection, and one Spike spoke of with passionate disinterest, she was surprised to find not a monster but a tiny, delicate wisp of a man, who brushed his lips against her hand in a sexless greeting.

But his eyes were ruthless and cold and made her skin crawl.

So when Spike came to her that night she asked again, and he still had no answer for her.

 

(Vicious)

There are parts of Vicious’ body, Julia thinks, that she is infinitely familiar with.

His mouth; the way it twitches, minutely, in a parody of a smile, before he kills someone.

His teeth; the marks they leave on her lower lip and on her neck.

His nails; the scratches down her back and the bloody new moons on her hips.

His voice; the guttural hitches that mean he’s losing his temper; the smooth edges that mean he’s pleased; the breathy tones that mean he’s lost control.

The back of his hand - but - she tries not to think of that.

The parts of Vicious’ body that make Julia stay are the parts she doesn’t know - his heart. His thoughts. His hopes.

She eventually realizes that she could stay a million years and never know any of them.

To Vicious, she is just a warm body. A doll. A toy.

 

(Spike)

He smells of ashtrays and whiskey and saxophones in the night and the first time she notices him -  _ really  _ notices him - she realizes immediately that this is a  _ terrible _ idea, and says as much.

He smiles at her - with his strange, mismatched eyes - and tells her it wouldn’t be the first, and she suspects that it’s that smile that dooms her, lopsided and strange and charming.

She grows to learn the smell of his hair and the taste of his skin, and every notch and scar, both on his skin and in his heart.

The safety - almost routine - of the violence with Vicious is reflected, in a strange way, by the terror she feels from his gentleness. His hands, rough with bloodshed and gunhandling, make her shiver in a way Vicious could never hope to, because he is so very gentle, and she is so very frightened of what this all means now.

She was never supposed to fall in love.

When he tells her his plan to run away, her heart beats so hard in her chest she thinks it might burst, or shatter; his bravery - stupidity - courage - is something she has never gotten used to, and she thinks it is something lacking in her entirely. She looks forward to discovering it in herself.

When the decision is taken from her, she weeps, for the brave new Julia that might have been, before asking a question that changes all of their lives:

 

“What would Spike do?”


	4. The Pale Rider/Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come and see, he begged over the phone.  
> Come and see.

**Spike**

_ And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. _

 

(Mao)

When Spike was young, it was Mao who first saw the potential in him, and initiated him into the Syndicate. He still remembers being initiated into the Syndicate; bowing low on his hands and knees, then feeling a cool, almost cold hand take him by the chin; at first, he thought the stern eyes gazing at him were the  _ obayun _ , but then realized that no, it was his  _ wakagashira _ . Whilst every other member of the  _ kobun _ bristled with weapons, the first lieutenant bore only a revolver and a pair of cold eyes.

He then remembers some words being spoken - warmer ones - and then Mao, the  _ obayun _ , stepped forward. He smiled warmly at the young Spike; at the time, Spike read the smile as gentle; in hindsight, to the older Spike, there is a touch of avarice to it, but, he suspects, that may just be his own cynicism working.

Hot sake is poured for both of them into a single bowl, and it is handed to Spike, who stares, wordlessly, at Mao.

The smile on his face is softer now, more understanding.

“When you drink this, you will become my son,” he says, “And I will make something of you.”

Spike, slightly frightened, intimidated by all the men in his memory with weapons, takes the cup and drinks, and the sake burns it’s way down his throat and into his belly, where it curls up like a hot, angry dragon.

“Very well,” says Mao, with a smile. “Welcome to the Red Dragon Syndicate. Now...let us see what we can make of you.”

It is only  _ after _ Mao says this that Spike notices a boy, about his age, standing in the background. He has pale hair, and his eyes have a look Spike recognizes; the wide, hungry look of a street dog searching for a master.

Whatever his name originally was, it no longer matters.

That was when Spike became brothers with Vicious.

That was when Mao introduced him into the worst decision of his life.

 

(Vicious)

There are two Vicious’ in Spike’s memory: Before, and After.

He cannot quite put a finger on where the joining line is, when Vicious stopped being a blood-brother and became an enemy; he thinks it might have been when he fell in love with Julia; or maybe it was when he left the Syndicate; or maybe it was that one mission where…

It doesn’t matter.

The Vicious of Before is pale, but only from lack of sun - a fact Spike used to tease him about whenever the sun on Mars got too hot. His hair was combed and frequently tied back from his face, and his eyes held warmth, and humanity, and the capacity for friendship in them. His voice is light, and not guttural, and frequently dances into jokes as they fight their way around the battlefield.

The Vicious of After is none of these things; his paleness is from lack of sun, sleep and possibly even food: men start to speculate he needs none of these things. His hair is no longer cared for, allowed to fall into his face in knots and tangles that suggest a disregard for anything in the world of the living. His voice drops lower and lower, as if he is trying to evoke the battlefield even when he speaks.

The fear Spike holds for Vicious is less a fear for Vicious, and more a fear that the Vicious of Before is just an illusion; just something conjured to make everything that happens After more palatable. The far worse possibility, Spike realizes, is that both Vicious’ are real, and that Vicious simply had no qualms with destroying the part of him that was human for blind ambition.

 

(Julia)

Julia.

_ Julia _ .

Julia.

Untouchable, at first - unreachable - like the heavens, or the stars, or freedom, Julia’s name became a mantra for all the things that Spike, even in his illustrious state,  _ could not have _ . Not a person, more an idea of a person, an idea of a concept of a person.

And then he saw behind the mask; saw femininity, not bloodlust; saw kindness, not a hard mask; saw warmth, not an icy cold riposte.

And oh god, it was so much more than lust, than worship, it was love and adoration and all the things that make life good and her hair smelled of roses and something he couldn’t name, something that made him ache to leave this planet and all the bloodshed with it behind.

He would nuzzle her neck and feel her wince and kiss it gently, as if he could kiss away the very memory of bruises, and touch the scars Vicious left and try to love them away as hard as he could because she was just  _ there _ , and beautiful, an idea of freedom now his.

If this beautiful woman could waltz down like a god from on high and be his, why couldn’t everything be his?

Why couldn’t he be free?

It was only a matter of time before Vicious tried to hurt him for this anyway. So why not try and escape? Why not leave?

What was tying him here - a bowl of sake and a promise to a father figure who had never given him the one thing he’d always longed for?

_ Come and see _ , he begged over the phone.

When she didn’t, he wasn’t hurt. Wasn’t even surprised.

Mortals, he reasoned, shouldn’t be surprised when they are only offered half of what they want, especially with hands as bloodied as his.

So he took freedom and ran with it, ran as far and as hard as he could, and promised that the blood he shed that day would be for  _ him _ , so he would never have to answer to anyone again.

And the last was in a long string of broken promises, until he found the  _ Bebop _ , and stopped making promises ever, ever again.


End file.
